Looking Forward To It
by supercasey
Summary: You find your old friend completely drunk, crashed onto his bed, costume gone. You, Slade Wilson, will have one of the most meaningful conversations with Bruce Wayne you've had in several years. Implied Slade/Bruce if you squint! Please R&R, One-Shot!


**Looking Forward To It**

**One-Shot**

**Description: You find your old friend completely drunk, crashed onto his bed, costume gone. You, Slade Wilson, will have one of the most meaningful conversations with Bruce Wayne you've had in several years. Implied Slade/Bruce if you squint!**

**Second Person POV; Slade**

* * *

You never expected to see him like this, well, you expected to see him like this _eventually_, but this isn't how you expected it to come about. Your name is Slade Wilson, Deathstroke the Terminator, a mercenary; long story short, you kill for a living and are pretty damn good at it. You stare down at the Batman with one, disapproving, calculating eye, the color tinted with a mixture of icy waters and grey clouds. Batman lays on his bed within the Watchtower, far beyond sober and without his costume, face down on his bed. The man looked like shit, and for once, no villains or sidekicks have caused this to your knowledge.

You arrived at the Watchtower awhile ago, seeing as you're assisting in a rather harsh mission with some supers, but that's not what's brought you to Bruce's bedroom. You came because Diana asked you to. Only she, Superman, yourself, and Bruce know of your... history with the Batman. But you didn't meet him when he was Batman, you met him when he was still Bruce Wayne, a playboy billionaire who had been short, thin, eight years old, and crying hysterically while being beaten to a bloody pulp. But that is a story for another day, another year maybe even.

"Get up." You order, prodding at the seemingly unconscious man with the tip of one of your boots, hoping to stir the man awake.

You hear a jumbled response, making you sigh with distaste. This isn't like Bruce; first of all, he rarely drinks, secondly, he never drinks on duty, thirdly... he never takes his cowl off on board of the Watchtower, at least, that's what Clark's told you. You growl, kicking Bruce swiftly in the side, making the man groan and roll over, his own pair of icy blues glaring deep into you, obviously not amused by your little 'Kick the drunk' game. He looks ready to fall asleep or blackout, but you interupt him at once.

"Don't even _think _about it, Wayne." You say, glaring at the younger man angrily. "_Get up_; I'm not letting you get drunk in front of the other heroes..."

Bruce grumbles a few curses, rubbing at his eyes, which you now see are bloodshot, and not just from the drinking. "When was the last time you slept, Bruce?" You ask, lowering your voice a bit, hoping not to give the troubled man a headache.

"Does it _matter_?" Bruce inquires, his voice a bit sloppy and wet. "I can't even remember anymore, lost count after four days."

"_Four days_?" You repeat, your voice in perfect monotone. "That's insane, even for you." You point out, your glare ceasing after a short time. "Why are you drunk?"

Bruce sighs, lazily tossing a calendar at you. You catch it with practiced ease, flipping through to the right month. You stare at today, seeing that it's been circled messily with a red marker, the words 'Visit Graves' written in Alfred's neat handwriting. You remember Alfred, nice man, let you stay the night as a kid if your father decided to beat you or not give you dinner. You haven't seen Alfred in years, you remind yourself to maybe visit him again soon, maybe bring Wintergreen along for the ride; Wintergreen likes Alfred.

"Your parents?" You ask, the flashes coming back quickly.

Bruce's mother and father had died three months after you met Bruce, and the pain of it all had really bared down on the newly orphaned boy. You remember it fairly well, had you gone to the funeral, didn't Alfred lend you a tuxedo? It's all fuzzy, as are most memories from before you were tested on in the military. You shake your head, refocusing on Bruce, who's decided to not give a shit if you say otherwise and crawl back into bed, back facing you. You're tempted to sigh again, but you swallow it down.

"Don't do this," You say, taking a seat on the end of Bruce's bed. "You're better than this, Wayne. What happened to the happy-go-lucky playboy I knew throughout high school?"

Bruce tosses a bat-a-rang at your head, you easily duck out of the way, not that it would've hurt much, Bruce's aim isn't exactly one hundred percent right now. "You know _damn well _what happened, Slade. Get out of here, I'm busy."

"Doing what, hm? Getting drunk off your ass and attempting to sleep your life away? I'm not going anywhere, you have some explaining to do. You never get like this, even on the day of their deaths, _you know that_." You explain, pulling off your mask, not like Bruce hasn't seen your face before, now has he? "Tell me what's wrong, is it Diana again? You know she sent me in here, we both know that means trouble."

"I said _get out_!" Bruce yells, he shoots up, aiming for your neck, but you dodge.

You get to your own feet before Bruce, grabbing him by the neck and throwing him against a wall, holding him there by his neck. "Get ahold of yourself, you're starting to act like your son!" You say, referring to a certain bird you know in Jump City. "Is this about him, Bruce? Is this about Richard?"

Bruce struggles briefly before sighing, giving up against your hold. "Okay, okay." He mumbles out, letting out a strangled breath. "Just... put me down. I'll explain, okay?"

You nod, tossing him onto his back on the bed. He huffs, glaring at you for a second before fishing into his bag near the foot of the bed, yanking out a pipe, a lighter, and a small baggie of nicotine. He sprinkles a good amount of the tobacco product into the pipe, lighting it easily before bringing the pipes long handle to his mouth, taking a good inhale of it before letting it out, his breathing now a bit more labored, but far more relaxed.

"You done yet?" You ask, wrinkling your nose at the awful smell of cigarette smoke. "I thought you cut off of that years ago?"

Bruce shrugs, seemingly unimpressed by your question. "Only on special occasions." He says simply, pulling back to talk to you more easily. "I guess you're wondering what's going on. Well, it's like this... times are getting harder now. People are dying, Slade. We keep getting new heroes off the streets, but they die so quickly... I even lost Jason."

You sit up, resting your chin on your closed hands, your elbows resting on your knees as you look at Bruce, gaze unmoving. "Jason Todd? Your latest Robin, right?"

"Used to be." Bruce states dryly, like he doesn't care, but you can see through the thick cloud of deceit; he's in far more pain inside than out. "He got murdered... it was Joker, he beat the poor kid to death with a crowbar, blew to bits whatever was left."

You nod, cataloging the information for later. "You have my condolences, Bruce. That can't possibly be easy, I also know what it's like to lose your boy..."

"Grant, right?" Bruce says, eyebrows raised in questioning, lowering when you nod indifferently. "I remember that... poor boy, he was a good kid, too."

"Before he became a merc." You state, finishing off the sentence yourself. You've heard it all before, especially from your ex-lover... Adeline. "I should've done more to protect him... but that's the past, something you seem rather stuck in as of late."

Bruce shrugs halfheartedly at that, continuing to smoke a bit, seemingly entranced. You yank the pipe from him after a bit, glaring at the caped crusader darkly. "Focus, Bruce. Now then... mind explaining why you decided to get drunk here instead of at home?"

"Are you kidding me?" Bruce asks, looking at you oddly. "Alfred would've killed me for this shit... the only place I could lock myself away from life for a few hours."

"Your door was unlocked." You remind Bruce, pointing at the door-handle. "Anyone could've gotten in. Just imagine if Robin came over, especially after what happened to his little brother, only to find you drunk? He'd be shocked, never able to take you seriously again." You explain. You know full well that Bruce being drunk wouldn't be _that _bad for Richard, but really, you'll play any cards to snap Bruce out of this.

Bruce stares at you, icy blues unblinking as he watches you breathing, not saying a word for the longest time. Finally, he speaks, his voice like an old man's; labored, harsh, intimidating. "Who says I was trying to lock the heroes away? I'm keeping myself from them, can't even open a drawer much less my Bat-belt to find a lock-pick. Figured it was my safest move right now."

"You know what's safer? Not getting drunk like a fucking idiot." You state, you'd chuckle at your funny response if you weren't so upset with Bruce for his ignorance. "Whatever else is wrong, you need to get over it, or at least stow it away for now, just get your job done and _then _be a hopeless idiot if you think it'll help."

You think he'll roll those eyes at you, to which you would've socked him in the face, but he doesn't. Bruce seems to consider your words as an old friend/sometimes partner/convenient bystander, taking everything you've told him in. You're usually not a fan of people keeping their emotions cooped up, seeing as that causes accidents more often than not, but with Bruce... he's different. When Bruce gets happy, it lasts seconds; when Bruce gets mad, it lasts days; when Bruce gets depressed, it lasts months. Bruce goes through mourning slower than you, but when he can shove it aside... you've seen some incredible things come from this man.

No wonder you two used to be such close friends.

"Okay." Bruce says, sighing deeply as he rubs at his eyes slowly, groaning a bit. "But you've got to do me a few favors."

You nod, accepting that. As much as you hate owing Bruce favors, or anyone favors for that matter, you understand that if it'll get Bruce to start helping himself and sober up... than you're willing to do just about anything. "What do you need?" You ask, resting your chin on your hand lazily.

"First off, you need to leave Robin and the other Teen Titans alone for awhile, I want to give Richard more time to recover after losing Jason. Secondly, you're not to tell a single soul about this, especially Alfred or Robin, they can't know about this. Thirdly... come over for tea next Sunday, it would be nice to see you again. Without anyone home other than Alfred... gets lonely. Could use someone to talk to." Bruce flashes you a 'Bruce Wayne' smirk, giving you an almost teasing look. "Even if all I've got is an asshole like you."

You chuckle, standing as you snap back on your mask, not facing Bruce for awhile. After a few seconds, you speak, voice strong and that of Deathstroke the Terminator. "Consider it done, Wayne." You stop at the door, staring at Bruce intently for a long moment. "And... tell Alfred that I'll be bringing Wintergreen, we can let those old-timers talk all they want."

Bruce nods at you, watching you leave with a better expression on his face than there had been twenty minutes ago. "I'll be looking forward to it."

_Fin_

**~Supercasey.**


End file.
